So, I guess you've all heard how James Brown died on that formerly pagan holiday some of us know as Christmas?
Well, maybe you hadn't but maybe you should? Or maybe someone came up to you on the street, slapped you across the face, spit down the back of your shirt, and screamed something incoherent about the godfather of soul. Thats what happened to me. Or at least if felt that way when I was bombarded by a poorly written Memphis newspaper article about the man.
I mean, I didn't know him very well, but we all knew him, right? We'd all like to have drank with him, maybe a few illicit drugs, maybe he'd shoot us with a shotgun, but you know what they always say: Don't boil the goat until the turnip's been browned.
God, get me back to New York, home. Where I can smoke n' cuss n' drink n' wear my life like jean pants instead of pajamas.
On the upside: my brother has a Wii and I am currently playing the newest Zelda. It own. nay, pwns. Zounds!
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